


Fever Dream

by Theartfulldodger



Series: Drarropoly '20: Founder's Edition [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Charlotte Bronte with a lovely cameo, Dream versions of canonical events, Fever Dreams, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Pre-Slash, Red String of Fate, Sectumsempra (Harry Potter), Sick Harry, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28655037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartfulldodger/pseuds/Theartfulldodger
Summary: Miserable and nearly delusional from his illness, Harry is unfit to argue against Malfoy assisting him back to their eighth year dormitory. Once he's safe and warm in his bed, he finds his dreams to be a surreal melding of past with present. But through it all, one single thread always leads back to Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Drarropoly '20: Founder's Edition [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025722
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76
Collections: Drarropoly '20: Founders Edition





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is another entry for Drarropoly 2020: Founder's Edition. 
> 
> A monumental thank you to [Edwina](https://edwinya.tumblr.com/) for the encouragement and assistance with this one.

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of Harry’s neck, tickling his spine as it makes its descent down his back. Exhausted, he collapses with his head in his arms at the eighth year table, fighting the nauseating feeling of drifting off to sea. He tightly wraps his clammy fingers around the cool edge of the table, in effort to anchor his mind as it sloshes about in his skull.

“Harry, you don’t look so well. Are you alright?” Concern colors Hermione’s voice as it joins the sounds of the Great Hall echoing thunderously in Harry’s ears. The feeling of being trapped in an echochamber is made worse by the painful pressure behind his eyes, his cheeks, his forehead.

“Gee. Thanks, Hermione,” he mumbles into his arm. His own voice is nearly unrecognizable, distorted. 

“Potter, you look like shit,” Malfoy says as he ambles over to plant his hands on the table across from Harry. 

Peeking out from the cave of his arms, Harry finds the blond leering over him, a teasing smirk firmly in place. There’s a slight tension in the lean muscles of his neck, despite his otherwise casual demeanor, and the downturn of his eyes is reminiscent of worry. Harry is certain he’s hallucinating.

“Everyone is so concerned with how I look today,” Harry says dryly. 

Malfoy gently lays the back of his hand against Harry’s forehead. Harry is surprised when, instead of flinching away, his body leans in to the soothing coolness against his skin. His eyelids drift closed as he relishes the feeling of the icy hand against his face.

“What are you doing?” Harry mutters, eyes still closed.

Malfoy scoffs before taking his hand away. Harry’s eyes snap open as his head tilts forward at the sudden loss of support. His face wrinkles in irritation as he watches Malfoy swing lanky legs over the bench to sit across from him.

“The skin on the back of the hand is very sensitive to minute temperature differences. You should have learned this in first-year potions, honestly. Anyway, you’re hot.” Malfoy coughs and Harry watches a faint blush paint the paleness of his neck. Irritated, Malfoy deliberately clasps his hands together, laying them on the table before hurriedly clarifying, “I mean, you feel hot. Your temperature. You have a fever.”

Hermione noticeably shifts away from Harry, before suggesting, “If you’re sick, maybe you should go to Madam Pomfrey?”

“'M not sick. Jus’ need sleep,” Harry protests as he rests his chin on his hands. Through his eyelashes, he watches Malfoy pick at the skin of his nail bed, the short and chewed nail of his thumb.

“Harry, really, you don’t have to-”

“Allow me, Granger,” Malfoy interrupts. “Alright, Potter, up we go. Come on, get up. Don’t give me that look... Your fragile pride is irrelevant under these circumstances. If you won’t go to the hospital wing, then it’s off to bed with you, before you infect the whole school with your intolerable stubbornness.” 

Harry glances deliriously at Hermione, unconvinced that she will allow Malfoy to take responsibility for his well-being. But she looks at Harry unsympathetically and shrugs her shoulders, a silent message of  _ This is what you get for not listening to me.  _

Malfoy wraps his arm around Harry’s waist, supporting him as the unlikely pair silently treks up to the common room. About halfway through their climb, the staircase shifts, overwhelming Harry’s already blurred sense of balance. He briefly considers letting himself tumble down the stairs, but clings pathetically to Malfoy’s bony shoulders instead.

Malfoy eases Harry to the floor as the staircase locks into place on the opposite side of the tower. “If you collapse from exhaustion on our way back, they’ll blame me. We’ll wait,” he mutters and gracefully sits cross-legged next to Harry. 

Though his sense of smell is lost, Harry imagines that Malfoy smells of his citrus shampoo, his strange cologne that says it smells like a library. Harry is certain it smells nothing like a library.

From his spot on the floor, Harry lets out a disgruntled groan, anxious to collapse into his bed. 

“Patience, Potter. I’ve got a Pepper Up in my trunk; you can have it if you’d like. I’d offer a Dreamless Sleep, but I don’t think you’ll need it,” Malfoy whispers as he awkwardly tugs on Harry’s robes to keep him sitting straight.

Harry follows the momentum of Malfoy’s pull, allowing his head to loll bonelessly to face the confusing blond, who no longer makes Harry flinch, and is helping him to bed, and probably smells of crinkled parchment.

He indulges the momentum too much, leaning far enough to rest his head on Malfoy’s shoulder. “Mmmm… What’re you doing, Malfoy?” he asks, settling into his newfound support. 

Malfoy inhales sharply, his muscles turning rigid under Harry’s weight. 

“I’ve no idea, Potter.”

By the time they reach the common room, Harry’s legs feel like jelly and the gentle rocking in his skull has transformed to a near-drunken spinning. He leans on a table as the room turns about him and tries not to empty his stomach.

“Blimey, Harry, you alright? You’re a bit green,” Seamus calls from his seat next to Dean on the plush, green couch in front of the fire. 

Harry is assaulted by images from a few days beforehand, when he and Malfoy sat in those exact seats. Harry had wandered down the hall to find Malfoy lounging along the couch, working on his Arithmancy and wearing one of Harry’s worn sweatshirts. He didn’t know how long he stood frozen still, gawking at the way his own sweatshirt pooled around Malfoy’s waist, the Slytherin’s exposed ankles above his woolen socks, the stray curls that fell from the knot of hair at the base of his neck. 

“It’s cold, Potter. Don’t leave your clothes lying around if you care so much about who wears them,” he’d snarked defensively. Harry could only chuckle, a bit bewildered by the curl of warmth in his stomach. 

So, he did what anyone would have done really, and sat on the opposite end of the couch, stretching his legs alongside Malfoy’s. He pulled out the snitch he’d nicked from the broomshed the previous week and began to mindlessly fiddle with its wings. The evening proceeded uneventfully, allowing Harry to indulge in his favorite pastime of watching Malfoy: the way he chewed his lip and tapped his quill when he was stuck, the way he started to lazily drag his left hand across the parchment at the end of the night, smudging the ink on his palm.

That night, he’d woken, crazed and heated from a dream of licking that very ink from Malfoy’s palm.

“Harry just needs some rest. Right, Harry?” Malfoy teases, pulling Harry from his reverie. Harry sways on his feet as he blinks away a bout of double vision. Malfoy reacts quickly, replacing his grip on Harry’s waist.

Harry is sure he’s hallucinating at this point because Draco Malfoy just called him by his first name. Draco Malfoy is stroking his thumb across Harry’s ribs in a gesture of comfort and reassurance. Draco Malfoy is looking at him with worry and concern and something else that Harry can’t identify in his delusional state of mind. Maybe he should have listened to Hermione and gone to Madam Pomfrey...

“Let’s get you to bed,” Malfoy whispers and moves to steer Harry down the hall to his empty dorm room.

Malfoy proceeds to direct Harry to sit on the edge of his bed and bends down to unlace his shoes. Harry has lost all sense of control and sanity as he succumbs to a bizarre urge to tangle his fingers in the fine white blond strands of hair in front of him. 

Malfoy ignores the gentle touch as he finishes up with Harry’s left shoe. He allows Harry’s hand to fall as he stands to tenderly help him out of his robes, his tie. Harry lets Malfoy wipe a drop of Pepper Up potion from the corner of his mouth and settles comfortably in bed, caressed by his warming charm. 

He vaguely feels the mattress dip as a hand removes his glasses and brushes the stray fringe from his sweaty forehead. Though he can’t be sure, he thinks those same fingers entwine with his as he’s dragged into a heavy sleep.

_ Faint music lingers in the crisp night air as Harry wakes, well rested and head clear. The moon casts a milky glow from the window that peers out over the Black Lake. Although it’s late, Harry feels energized, compared to the daylight hours that were muddled by fever and delusion.  _

_ Harry sits up, letting the blankets pool around his waist. Glancing down, he contemplates the sharp lines of his emerald green dress robes, the patterned stitchwork of a charcoal vest, and the shiny silver buttons of the crisp white shirt underneath. He doesn’t remember why he slept in his dress robes, but decides not to question it. _

_ A series of sharp knocks pulls Harry’s attention from his wardrobe choices. Golden sparks shower from the door with each tap, forming a glittering, reflective pool at the foot of Harry’s bed. The puddle ripples as the door swings open, revealing Draco Malfoy, leaning casually against the doorframe in his own scarlet red dress robes. A delicate, nearly translucent coppery thread hangs from his wrist. _

_ Harry feels his breath hitch, a sense of longing tugging at his chest towards the beautiful man eyeing him from the doorway. _

_ “What are you still doing in bed? We’re going to be late,” Draco hisses as he treads through the puddle to stand at Harry’s bedside, leaving glowing footprints on the wooden floor behind him.  _

_ He reaches casually for Harry’s hand, interlaces their fingers and gently tugs to ease him up out of bed. Puzzled, Harry eyes their linked hands, and notes his very own shimmering thread, tied snuggly around his left wrist.  _

_ “Well, at least you’re already dressed. You look lovely in green,” Draco observes before leaning forward to brush his lips against Harry’s.  _

_ Harry’s eyelids flutter shut, as his body falls into a rhythm that is simultaneously familiar and unrecognizable. The kiss feels easy, instinctual, like it’s one of many. They linger a moment as Draco traces his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip before he parts with a gentle nip at the sensitive flesh.  _

_ When Harry opens his eyes, the ceiling begins to rain, the droplets sparkling and silver. They smell of old books and oranges and cling to Draco’s loose, saltwater waves, the tip of his nose, the pout of his lips. _

_ “Where are we going?” Harry asks dazedly, transfixed by the iridescent shine of Malfoy’s lips.  _

_ Draco huffs in mock frustration before leading Harry by the hand back through the door. The remnants of the puddle splash under their footsteps, coating the hems of their robes in gold. _

_ Harry emerges in the Great Hall. He’s lost Draco, but finds himself shuffling along an elevated dueling stage. Gilderoy Lockhart, aged and senial, waves his arms flamboyantly as he argues with Peeves in the corner. Harry looks down from the stage to watch his eighth-year classmates filling the audience.  _

I wonder who’s dueling _ , he thinks to himself as his wand appears in his hand. He turns up his wrist and stares quizzically. The string is still there, swaying in a phantom breeze. _

_ “All right, wands at the ready,” the Bloody Baron shouts from his spot on a windowsill above the crowd. _

_ Harry’s eyes follow a flutter of movement at the opposite end of the stage to find Draco confidently climbing up to the platform, his gold-soaked dress robes flitting behind him. He takes his position as if he were a dancer, carefully planting his feet and smoothly raising his left hand to point his wand at Harry. The glimmer of string around Draco’s wrist catches Harry’s eye as he stares, transfixed by his opponent. _

_ “Scared, sweetheart?” Draco drawls, cocking an eyebrow in provocation.  _

_ Instead of raising his wand, Harry feels his feet drag him towards Draco, as though drawn forward by something mystical, magnetic. The stage seems to lengthen as he walks, the distance between him and Draco stretching further and further. He can feel the prickling gazes of his classmates, dissecting and judging each footstep towards the Slytherin. _

_ By the time he reaches Draco, Harry is breathless and his heart races in anticipation of something his mind is yet unaware. He stands tall, the tip of Draco’s wand pressed harshly into his chest, and looks up to find fear in gray silicon eyes.  _

_ “Draco, I’m not afraid of you,” Harry hears himself say as the scene of the Great Hall dissolves around him. His words echo off the walls of the prefect’s bathroom and evaporate in the haze of steam that hangs in the air. “No, no, not here. Please, not this.” _

_ “There’s nothing you can do right now, darling. I’ve made my choices and so have you. We have to live with them. We have to make these mistakes,” Draco says softly, a sharp contrast to the wand digging painfully into Harry’s bare sternum. _

_ “What does that even mean? Draco, please, just let me help you. I just want to-” _

_ “It won’t work, I’m not ready yet. You’re definitely not ready yet. We have to make our mistakes first. The people we are right now, we aren’t ready.”  _

_ The next words that leave Draco’s lips are Harry’s own words, in Harry’s own voice. The curse that bursts from Draco’s wand crashes over Harry in overwhelming waves, rapidly slicing through the upper layers of his skin.  _

_ Behind Draco, Harry sees himself in the mirror and watches the web that forms across his own chest and neck. He watches his skin unravel at the edges, the steady stream of shimmering gold pouring from the painful cracks in his flesh.  _

_ Draco takes a tentative step towards Harry. He hesitates before gently laying his palms on Harry’s chest.  _

_ “Harry, I’m so sorry, darling. I was trying to do better, but I was so scared. I didn’t know what else I could do.” Draco begins to quietly sob, painting his face in glistening gold as he smears his hands over his dampened cheeks. “I’m not brave, like you are. It’s going to take a bit of time, yet, but I’ll get there. You’re not quite ready either, but it’s going to be alright. We’ll have a soft place to fall, you and I, love, just wait a bit longer.”  _

_ Draco pulls his hands from his face and holds out his palms. Instead of the gold that pours from Harry’s skin, his palms drip with bright crimson blood. A single droplet slides down his pale skin to suspend from the string wrapped around his wrist before falling to the flooded floor below. Harry can only watch as bursts of blood bloom across Draco’s chest. _

_ “But this doesn’t make any sense... You’re not making any sense!” Harry yells frantically, temper flaring and intensified by panic. “This isn’t alright, how can you say it’s alright? I’m so sorry, Draco, how could I… What I did, I-” _

_ “Harry, darling, this had to happen. We wouldn’t be who we are without our scars, the hurt we’ve caused. But, you and I, we’re not done. It won’t always be this way. We won’t always be this way. It’s going to be alright, darling. It’s just not time yet.”  _

_ Harry opens his mouth to argue but his mouth fills with sand and his vision rapidly fades to black. _

_ Harry wakes, shivering, on the floor of the Great Hall. He stares at the starry ceiling above him, where shining orbs of green and blue and orange dangle from invisible strings. The little planets orbit around the room, an entire solar system contained within the halls of Hogwarts. Intrigued, Harry reaches up to touch a small, rosy orb with golden rings as it whizzes by above his head. He pulls his hand away to find a shimmering dust coating his fingertips.  _

_ He stands uneasily, feeling a bit off balance, and hears a familiar, gruff voice behind him. _

_ “Beautiful, evening, isn’t it Harry?” Sir Nicholas asks, lingering in the doorway.  _

_ “It’s brilliant, Sir, but what’s the occasion?”  _

_ Harry seems to be the only corporeal occupant of the Great Hall. Whatever the cause, the other invitees float about the room, uninhibited by physical weight, chatting and laughing and dancing elegantly to an unclear source of music. The conglomeration of spirits casts an eerie radiance across the Hall, doubled by its reflection in the glass ceiling above. As Harry thinks of the glittering rain earlier in his bedroom, the droplets begin to fall once again. They spear straight through the pellucid party-goers, but coat the tables, chairs and floor in a glossy silver film. _

_ “Oh, my boy, always a jokester. Good one, that is!” _

_ “Sir, I don’t, er-mean to be rude, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _

_ “The string, Harry! Of course you know about the string,” he says confidently. _

_ Confused, Harry scans the room for a clue and finds nothing. He is about to say so, but is hindered when Sir Nicholas says excitedly, “Oh, Charlotte! How are you, my dear?” _

_ Sir Nicholas is distracted by a pale, amber-toned ghost who waltzes by with a feline-like grace. She looks decidedly down her nose at Sir Nicholas, who dives deep into an emotional and pleading speech. _

_ “Nearly one hundred years, and you didn’t think to visit once? My dear, it’s been too long. I can hardly bear to think of the tragedy that was this century without you. How is Emily? And Anne? You never tell me anything anymore, I’ve been left to ponder your existence without any…” Sir Nicholas’ face falls as he traipses behind the unimpressed Charlotte. He follows her determinedly down the side of the Hall, both figures fading into the ethereal blur of the crowd. _

String?  _ Harry puzzles. As though conjured by the thought, he notices the thin, gossamer string that once again hangs from his wrist. He lifts the thread in his hands and traces its path with his eyes. It coils at his feet before taking an abrupt turn behind him, and out the door. _

_ Harry begins to wrap the thread around his wrist as he follows it into the night.  _

_ A heavy snowfall greets him as he exits the castle. The snow glistens and swirls in a strangely warm, caressing breeze. At the top of Hogwarts’ stony steps, Harry finds a trail of glimmering footprints that fall in line with his string. He confidently follows their lead onto the grounds, unweaving the string from tree branches and dusting it of snow, continuing to wind the shimmering thread around his arm. _

_ The string weaves towards the lake, leading Harry to the base of the Whomping Willow. However, the tree is not so much a  _ whomping _ willow, as a literal  _ weeping _ willow, whose leaves cry tears of blue and green into the murky depths of the Black Lake. _

_ As Harry stands entranced by the somber tree, he feels his string give a little tug and watches as it begins to unwind from his wrist. His brow wrinkles in confusion at the newly-found tension until he follows its path to the lean and lanky blond, leaning against the weeping willow.  _

_ Draco smiles at Harry as he twists the string around his wrist and gives it a stronger tug, pulling Harry forward.  _

_ Harry stands in front of Draco and drops the pile of string, allowing it to coil and gather at their feet. Draco pulls gently on the string nearest to Harry’s wrist, urging him close. Draco’s breath is hot on Harry’s ear as he leans in to whisper, “Told you it would be alright, in time. Are you ready, darling?” _

Harry wakes abruptly, covered in goosebumps and a cold sweat. Disoriented and dizzy, he sits up violently to assess his surroundings. The room is dark, quiet, and unoccupied, but for a sleeping Slytherin, tucked into an armchair at Harry’s bedside. 

Draco’s bright hair nearly glows in the moonlight, mussed from sleep. His left arm extends uncomfortably from underneath him, his long, bony fingers curling gently, as though groping for Harry, even as he sleeps.

Wide-eyed and unconvinced he isn’t still lost in his wild dream, Harry reaches out to brush his fingers against Draco’s outstretched hand. He anchors himself in the coolness of Draco’s skin, in tracing the fine lines of his palm. Harry smiles to himself as he remembers Draco’s words as he stood, waiting patiently under the willow.  _ Are you ready, darling? _ Harry lies back onto his pillow and focuses on the rise and fall of Draco’s chest as he is gently lulled into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Come say 'hello' [on Tumblr](https://graymatters.tumblr.com/).


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